Mirion, the Elf of Standing, the Courageous, the Self-Proclaimed though Admittedly Skilled Assassin. The latter meant killing him might be too challenging, if not immoral. Protecting himself so violently meant his safety, maybe, yet it deprived the fellowship of Mirion's skill. Good. Compliments meant some bit of respect -- even a bit stayed his blade. Mirion the Fellow, Mirion the Somewhat Admirable, Mirion the -- 

"Chipper mood, aye?" one of the fellowship chirped with startling enthusiasm. Shi'mon offered too big a smile and adjusted his pack. By the Goddess, had he been smirking?

Slowing to the back of the group, Shi'mon fell in beside one of the humans. She paid him only a passing glance before smoothing the straps of her pack. Tan skin further sun-kissed and the hands of a serious craftsperson. The little scars on her fingers, mostly cuts and burns convinced him she must be a smithy. Or perhaps a builder, though, what about the burns? Shi'mon expelled the thought. Quietly walking beside another brought a certain joy. Every stride spoke leagues if one could read them. Though Shi'mon could not, he enjoyed imagining what the sway of one's shoulders or hips might say. After a moment or two staring at the Watcher's backside, Shi'mon found himself surprisingly amused. He thought for a moment the supposed-smithy noticed. 

Turning to her, Shi'mon let on a devilish grin and said quietly, "A long walk ahead of us. How might we pass the time?" He then allowed his eyes to drift back forward, only to find an armoured dwarven arse. "Never mind that... I am Shi'mon. May I ask your name? I notice you've a crafty look to you, a fletcher perhaps?"